


Of Interrupted Broadcasts

by prettyoddsoren



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Post-Reichenbach, Stand Alone, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:33:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettyoddsoren/pseuds/prettyoddsoren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a white noise space in between the day he saw him falling from up high and down over the pavement, and the moment where he saw him again, breathing and scared, in the middle of his small living-dining room in a small bed-and-sit somewhere in London, distant and foreign from Baker Street and all their history, heavy and full of so many things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Interrupted Broadcasts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This is not my first time writing but it certainly is posting here and in english, since spanish is my mothertongue.  
> Unbetaed, I decided to post this since we're so close to that grand day, and because I'm free to write again.
> 
> I'd appreciate any feedback you feel you want to give!
> 
> And happy holidays to you all :)

  
There's a white noise space in between the day he saw him falling from up high and down over the pavement, and the moment where he saw him again, breathing and scared, in the middle of his small living-dining room in a small bed-and-sit somewhere in London, distant and foreign from Baker Street and all their shared history, heavy and full of so many things.

John looks at him struggle while he searches for words. It's the first time in all those years that have passed where he knows, he just knows he doesn't know what to say.

John however, stands still against the door, arms on his sides and his head slowly filling up with that white noise, that radio static: the kind you find in between stations, the one that tells you there's no signal.  
Time starts to pass and with Sherlock not daring to say a single word, time grows slow as well.  
John thinks he can see the scene from up above, a whole out-of-body experience that could also be a dream.

A dream. Oh.

"This could be just a dream", John hears himself say, his voice out from him and around them. 

He can see how Sherlock opens his eyes just a fraction and cautiously approaches him, scared and somewhat insecure.

Sherlock lays one of his hands over John's face and suddenly, as if electricity inside his tiny bed-and-sit had gone and come back, the feeling of the hand against his face makes the white noise stop; all of London's noise coming back inside his head, all the colors bringing up their saturation and brightness in a 90%, and it all feels so overwhelming, so foreign, and so necessary again, that John needs to leave a hand over Sherlock's, to make sure it's tangible, that it's there, in present body.  
It's warm and soft, and it shakes with the weight of three years filled with stories, explanations, and pending apologies.

"...Oh god', John says with a thread of voice, and feels like he's going to fall down.

And Sherlock does too, and they both go tumbling down into the floor, next to the door.  
The building's quiet and their breathing resonates, and John feels it's important.  
John ends up against the doorframe, Sherlock hidden against his chest. John's hands nestled among Sherlock's riotous curls.

And it's the feeling of it, the texture of Sherlock's messy hair and the warmth radiating from his head what levels and settles him, makes him still and certain about what is happening and that no, it's not a dream, not this time.  
Sherlock is the background noise when the telly's volume is low but reminds you of its presence. Sherlock is solid and breathing and warm.

He and Sherlock are a pair of cut out images from a book, standing still and quiet in the middle of the story that is not quite finished.


End file.
